


if you want the king, you better call

by inkk



Category: The Rolling Stones
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Sugar Daddy, Businessmen, Dirty Talk, M/M, Older Man/Younger Man, PWP, Phone Sex, obscene amounts of personal wealth, why did i do this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-04
Updated: 2020-02-04
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:54:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22536583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkk/pseuds/inkk
Summary: His phone is ringing.Of course it is.It’s four in the afternoon, he’s sitting in a conference room with twenty of the company’s richest partners looking down the table at him, and his phone is blaring Hollaback Girl.(AKA the one where Keith is on a business trip and Mick is bratty, lonely and horny in equal measures.)
Relationships: Mick Jagger/Keith Richards
Comments: 10
Kudos: 54





	if you want the king, you better call

**Author's Note:**

> apparently i have a Thing for keith in suits! who knew.  
> i truly have no idea why my brain conjured this up, but now we're just running with it, because i've had a wicked case of writer's block and i'm desperate to finally get something finished.
> 
> uhhh for the purpose of the story, keef is like 40(?)ish and mick is ... i mean i dunno, let's just say he's 20. it's ambiguous and terrible and you can do with that what you will

+

His phone is ringing.

Of course it is.

It’s four in the afternoon, he’s sitting in a conference room with twenty of the company’s richest partners looking down the table at him for an answer, and his phone is blaring _Hollaback Girl_.

Keith feels a muscle in his jaw jump as he flicks his phone to silent - effectively cutting off the garish music, but not halting the frantic buzz against his thigh.

“My apologies,” he says smoothly, flashing a smile under the amused gazes of his associates, “I’ve been expecting a rather urgent personal call.” In his pocket, the phone vibrates twice more before mercifully going still. Keith clears his throat. “To answer your question, ladies and gentlemen — if you’ll look towards the infographic my colleague has pulled up on the board…”

Mercifully, the phone only goes off once more during the remaining twenty minutes of the meeting. Keith is quick to tie up loose ends and shake everyone’s hands — cordially directing them towards the open bar on the main floor, of course. It’s his best trick, and one he knows well: pile on the charm, then use a tasteful distraction to fade into the background.

He’ll have to go down and schmooze with the suits soon, but for now, Keith waits for everyone to file out of the room before unbuttoning his suit jacket, sitting back down and pulling out his phone. He only has to wait two rings after pressing _redial_ for the other end to pick up.

“Darling,” Keith says stiffly. “I thought I told you not to call me while I’m in a meeting.”

There’s a pause. “Must have gotten the time zones mixed up,” Mick drawls, entertained.

Keith consults the hands of his Patek Phillipe watch, then pinches the bridge of his nose. “Right,” he says, not bothering to bring up the fact that the time in Calgary is only an hour ahead of LA. “Well, what do you want, then?”

“I’m bored.”

Keith makes a face. “Bored?”

“Terribly so,” Mick sighs, audibly slipping into the childish pout Keith knows so well. “Can you help me?”

The temptation to roll his eyes is almost painful. “You can’t seriously have spent your entire allowance already,” Keith says, “I just gave you extra last week.”

“I don't want _money_ , silly,” Mick replies testily. A pause, then — “And you can't just solve everything by throwing a credit card at it, you know.”

Keith snorts, leaning back in his chair. “That’s rich, coming from you.”

“Well, it’s not my fault you have more money than you know what to do with,” Mick sniffs. “Or that you conveniently happen to get off on spending it on me, either.”

Keith pauses, then stops. Can’t argue with that.

“So what are you wearing?” Mick carries on brusquely.

“Pardon?” Keith says. There’s a pause as the words register. Then, “Oh, no. No, no, no. I’m sitting in a conference room with clients waiting for me downstairs, Mick, we are not about to—”

“Because I’m wearing a silk robe with nothing underneath,” Mick continues airily. “That nice one you bought me for Valentine’s Day, remember? Red, with lace trim? Feels so nice against my skin. There's no one around, and I’m _so_ —”

Keith hangs up. He scrubs a hand over his face and inhales a long breath. Then, on second thought, he sends a text.

_10pm. I’ll call you this time._

_And please stop sending the chauffeur to pick up seafood from that place on Melrose, by the way. He deserves a night off._

+

The extent to which Keith loathes socializing could be considered shocking, given the fact that he’s the chairman of his own damn company.

He supposes the drinks and drugs and fancy dinners were always bound to lose their charm after seventeen-odd years in the game, though. Especially now that he’s been relegated to the role of host, everything just seems to blend into one big smear of suits and handshakes and fancy crystalware.

Tonight is no different; he takes his time mingling, making sure to smile and offer drinks and ask polite questions about so-and-so’s children who he met once at a Christmas party five years ago, all the while unable to shake the mental image of Mick and that stupid red robe.

The sit-down portion of dinner is an exercise in fake smiles and proper manners. There’s a toast, of course, delivered by Keith as everyone raises their dainty flutes of aged Dom Perignon, followed by two hours of polite listening as the table goes around in a circle with their most recent stories of divorce — _A real bitch_ , everyone agrees. _Total psycho. Too bad she won the custody battle for those kids you never made an effort to see._

By the time dessert rolls around, Keith feels like he’s downing his fifth rum and coke just to stay conscious through the mind-numbing buzz of gossip and ass-kissing. The perfectly-starched collar of his shirt feels as if it's constricting around his neck. And to make things worse, his mind keeps cycling back to visions of Mick, standing before him in that silky red robe that stops two inches above mid-thigh, slender legs on display and a twinkle in his eye.

“Mr. Richards,” Mick would say, stepping closer with a little smile, “Care to join me in the parlour?”

And Keith would. He’s a pushover for Mick; always has been, ever since he first met him making minimum wage as a barista off the side of Sunset Boulevard. Keith’s never been able to say no to those lips. He'd have no real choice but to let Mick lead him into the sun-soaked sitting room and push him down onto the couch, to let Mick stop and put on a record from Keith’s collection, skinny hips swaying to the beat of Muddy Waters’ guitar before slowly, teasingly make his way across the room and into Keith’s lap, knees on either side as he plays with Keith’s tie—

An uproarious burst of laughter catches his attention, sweeping imaginary-Mick away as quickly as he came. Keith sighs and casts a cursory glance around. He checks his watch — ten thirty-five. Twenty minutes before he can duck out without causing a fuss, having fulfilled his social obligations for the night. Twenty-five before he’ll be calling Mick from the suite with his expensive pants crumpled at his ankles.

Fuck.

Mick will be waiting for him, too. There’s no way he won’t. He puts on a big production of being a snarky, spoiled brat, but his detached facade can’t quite hide the fact that he’s even more of a nymphomaniac than Keith himself is accused of being.

The thought only makes the last few minutes are even more hellish than before. By the time Keith finally bids everyone an enthusiastic goodnight and makes a beeline toward the private elevator, his practiced grin feels glued onto his face. It’s only when the golden doors slide smoothly shut that he takes a breath, slackens his jaw, tugs the half-windsor loose from his neck and uses his key to send himself directly up to the penthouse.

The pristine king bed is waiting for him when he arrives. Keith barely spares a glance toward the tasteful bouquet of orchids on the table, or the glass wall overlooking the twinkling lights of the city below — he’s busy kicking off his shoes and shrugging off his suit jacket, carelessly flinging it over the settee as he makes his way to sit on the edge of the mattress.

The metal buttons of the landline phone click coolly, pleasantly beneath his fingers. He punches in the familiar number and checks his watch again: eleven P.M. on the dot.

“I wondered if you’d be late,” Mick says, his voice coy through the receiver as the line picks up after barely half a ring.

Keith wedges the phone between his cheek and shoulder, beginning to undo the buttons of his cuffs. “I don’t make a habit of it,” he says brusquely.

“How’s the hotel?”

“Nice enough.”

There’s a pause. “Bad night?” Mick inquires, a little more seriously.

“Nothing I don't see every day,” Keith says with a humourless laugh, taking a second to let himself breathe. “Sorry, I don't mean to be short with you. What have you been up to, anyways?”

“Well, Charlie came ‘round the house today, so we went for drinks and a round of golf at the club. But other than that…” Mick trails off. He sighs. “I’m _bored_ , baby. I do wish you’d hurry back.”

“Tuesday night,” Keith tells him, lips curving up into the ghost of a tired smile as he starts on the other cuff. “My flight lands at nine. We’ll do dinner in, I think. I’ll tell the chef to make that curry you like.”

Mick laughs a little, the sound coming through soft and intimate over the landline. “I miss you too, you know. A week is a long time to be away.”

“What, the vibrator doesn’t cut it?” Keith teases.

“Obviously not,” Mick says, slipping right back into a pout. “I’ve been going wild over here without you. I wake up hard every morning and there’s no one here to take care of me.”

Ah, the luxuries of youth.

Keith feels his brows arch up in interest. “Yeah?” he prompts.

There’s another laugh and then rustling on the other end. As if Mick is getting… comfortable.

“Tell me what you're doing,” Keith says, untucking his shirt. His fingers work deftly over the buttons, leaving it hanging loose around his shoulders.

“I’m on the bed,” Mick tells him slowly, his tone dipping low. “I’ve got a record on and I’m lying here in that robe, tracing circles on my skin. I’m pretending it’s you.”

Keith draws a breath and preemptively pops the button of his fly, reclining onto the mattress with the phone lazily pushed up against his face. “Keep going.”

“If you were here I’d start feeling you through your slacks, getting you hard for me.”

Keith knows a verbal cue when he hears one. His hand slips down to feel himself, over his pants, feeling a faint, directionless wish that it were somehow Mick’s bony fingers instead. 

“What record are you playing?” he asks.

“Howlin’ Wolf and Willie Dixon,” Mick says. “ _Moanin’ In The Moonlight_.” Keith makes an appreciative sound, and Mick laughs — “Homesick for the record collection, are you?” he teases. “Would you rather I just prop the phone up beside the player and let you listen to that instead?”

Keith hums as if considering it. “Normally I’d say yes, but I think I’m kind of in the mood to have a wank right now.”

“I’m not stopping you,” Mick says, accompanied by some shuffling. “In fact, I might as well join in.”

Keith slides his fingers under his fly, working himself a little more firmly through the thin layer of Italian silk. “Are you touching yourself yet?” he asks.

Mick sighs softly through the phone. “Yes, Mr. Richards.”

Fucker knows that gets him going.

Keith’s envisioning it now; Mick, splayed out and fisting his cock, squeezing just a little on the downstroke. Slowly, though. Dragging it out. Probably imagining Keith is doing the same.

“Wish you were here,” Keith says, finally giving up and pushing his slacks and briefs down in one go. “Wish you were on top, sitting pretty on my lap.”

“If I had it my way I’d never get off,” Mick says with a short, ragged laugh. “The vibrator’s fine, darling, but it's nowhere near as good as your cock.”

Keith’s lips twitch in response, wrapping a loose fist around himself. “Needy.”

There's a pause. “God,” Mick says, “You have no idea. I wore that blue plug all afternoon, hoping you’d have time to chat between meetings so I could show you. But then you had to go to that lunch at the last minute, so...”

Keith twists his wrist as his eyes slip shut. He can imagine it in torturously vivid detail: Mick’s flat little ass, bent over with the pale blue tip peeking out, followed by a vision of him wandering around the house, pouting and waiting for Keith to call.

“Good thing you didn’t tell me that,” he says, “or else I’d have probably just cancelled it altogether.”

It occurs to him how strange this is — sprawled out on a king-size bed with his shirt undone and trousers ‘round his ankles, hand on his dick with a slutty little thing dirty-talking him on the phone from two thousand kilometers away. 

Strange, indeed. Like a teenager’s wet dream.

Mick makes a little noise, followed by a shallow gasp into the receiver. “Can’t wait ‘til you get home and I can ride you on the couch while you’re still in your suit.”

Keith does crack a smile at that. “I’m sure the drycleaner will be thrilled.”

“Buy a new one,” Mick says, indifferent. “Burberry and semen is a designer look, you know. It’s— Mm, irreplicable.” There’s a little grunt on the other end, then more faint shifting.

“Jesus,” Keith laughs, “Are you fingering yourself already?”

“Yeah,” Mick huffs, “Two. Angle’s not as good as when you do it, though.”

Keith twists his wrist with an approving sound low in his throat. He’s tempted to ask for a photo, but decides against it on the basis that it’ll take too long — he’s learned the hard way that Mick’s obsessive vanity extends to pictures of his asshole, as well. ( _”It’s about the composition, Keith. I want to get the angles right.”_ )

“Add another,” Keith says instead. “Talk to me.”

There's a slow exhale through the wire as Mick obeys. “Feels good,” he murmurs. “Even if I can't reach the right places, it’s— It’s nice. The stretch. Like I’m really getting ready for you.”

“Forty-eight more hours and I’m all yours.”

Mick’s laugh is throaty. “Oh, believe me, I’ll be ready. It’s going to be a challenge not to jump you in the driveway in front of all the neighbours.”

“Christ, you'd probably like that, wouldn't you?” Keith mutters. “Not like you didn't already spend the entire summer tanning on the front lawn in a speedo, you fucking showoff.”

“You like it when I show off,” Mick counters, and, well. Keith can hardly argue with that.

Lord, what a speedo it had been — tiny, pink, and leaving very little to the imagination. Keith can almost taste the chlorine on Mick’s skin just thinking about it; memories of margaritas, tanned skin and smeared cherry lip gloss, fucking out by the pool with Etta James on the stereo.

“You like that I’m yours,” Mick continues, slow and teasing. “You like that the neighbours gossip about us. You _like_ that they know you've got a pretty, pampered boy waiting for you at home,” he says, his breath hitching just a little at the end.

Keith can practically envision the way he’s biting his lower lip, teeth digging into the soft, plush pink of it as his legs flex and his hips rut up into the air. It’s torture. It’s glorious. He’s leaking precum like a fucking teenager at the thought of it.

“They know you treat me right, that you buy me nice things. Almost twice my age and you still fuck me better than anyone else.”

A little grunt slips from the back of Keith’s throat. The words feel a bit like being punched in the stomach, he thinks, hips ticking up to meet his fist.

“God,” Mick breathes, “D’you remember that day last winter when I came into your office? I thought your branch manager was about to have a heart attack.”

Keith's fingers flex against the phone receiver. He does remember, quite well; his secretary’s wide eyes and the pinched look on Brian’s face as Mick had waltzed in, decked out in big sunglasses, ruffled shirt and fresh manicure.

Mick’s voice dips low on the next line. “I wanted to blow you right then and there, show everyone I was yours.”

“Oh, god.” Of all the weird fantasies in the world, that one takes the fucking cake.

Mick laughs. “You going to last much longer?”

“Not if you keep talking like that, no. Filthy fucking slut.”

Mick laughs at that, but it’s a little shaky. For a moment they just breathe in tandem, listening, stroking faster, the distance between them seeming to collapse. Keith closes his eyes. It’s easier to imagine Mick this way; spread out on the bed before him like so many times before, ass in the air. Fucking begging for it.

“I want you,” Mick half-murmurs. “I wish you were here, watching me.” Keith hears him swallow and then he says, “Fuck, we really should have used Skype for this. Why didn't we use Skype?”

“I thought the hotel telephone was romantic,” Keith objects, breathing a little heavier as he readjusts the receiver against the side of his face. “Old-school, y’know. I can't keep up with every new app that comes out.”

“Christ,” Mick says, in that exasperated way he does when Keith starts pulling out the Old Man Jokes. “Nevermind, just— tell me you want me to ride your cock, or something. I’m so close it fucking hurts, baby.”

Keith can sympathize. It’s not much of a stretch to imagine Mick crawling on top, wiry thighs on either side of Keith’s hips, and that unique look of openmouthed rapture as he sinks home. Keith tells him as much, managing to gasp out a few sentences, meaningless things like _so tight, always feel so good_ and _can’t wait to kiss you hello and bend you over the kitchen table_.

“Keith,” Mick exhales, “I’m close, I—”

“You're so gorgeous,” Keith tells him roughly, tipping his head back as he works his own cock tight and fast, just on the edge of too-rough. “And that fucking dirty mouth of yours, Jesus. Prettiest piece of trailer-trash I know.”

Mick as good as _keens_ , low and wanton in Keith’s ear. “Keith, I’m gonna—”

“Come for me, baby,” Keith tells him, his own orgasm hurtling imminently forth. “Come on, let go. Let me hear you.”

Mick makes a little sound, halfway between a gasp and a moan, and then he cries out as he comes.

For a moment, there's just hard, shaky breathing. “Fuck,” Mick says softly, sounding almost surprised. He swallows audibly. “Did you—?”

“Yeah, yeah, right with you,” Keith says, a shudder of heat passing down his spine as he finishes onto his stomach with a muffled groan.

He lays there for a second, panting, his own come decorating his stomach as he stares up at the gold ceiling fan. Some dazed part of his brain imagines his breath intermingling with Mick’s over the line.

“Shit,” he finally says, hand falling limply to the bed. “You’re a menace, darling.”

Mick laughs. It's a sweet, dopey sound. “Fuck,” he says with an exhale. “That was— I mean, that was hot as fuck.”

“Hot enough to forgive me for leaving you home alone?”

“Bring me back a pair of size eleven Louboutins and we’ll talk.”

Keith grins. The way Mick can switch from bratty to sincere in less than a second never ceases to amaze.

“Tuesday,” he says. “I’ll hurry home.”

+

**Author's Note:**

> LMAO why is phone sex so hard to write ?? legit i hate it, i can't even deal with sexting irl idk why i decided to do this
> 
> uhh anyways. thanks for reading! feel free to pop by and say hi on tumblr @[shotgunmessiahs](http://shotgunmessiahs.tumblr.com) ♥️


End file.
